The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [152]
At the last moment, Gregorio left his task as joint host and climbed the staircase to the small casement window which gave on to Leith Wynd.
The first of the triumphal arches began at the bottom by Trinity College, and the light southern wind smothered the sound of the singing and trumpets, but it was clear enough from the noise that the procession was now on its way, pausing now and then for the enactment of some short pageant, or the recital of verse, or a song. The main choir, including Katelijne Sersanders, had not been wasted on the steep one-sided incline of Leith Wynd, but had been saved for the Canongate proper, where pends and roof-tops were crammed and a discerning audience awaited in the yard of the Abbey. Gregorio smiled, thinking of Katelijne, and then sobered. These young girls: what lay before them?
Katelijne, here to marry someone, no one knew who – but strong enough, very likely, to make a success of it. Mary of Guelders, come twenty years since from the wealthy Burgundian court to marry James’s father, but well equal to what she knew she would find. And twenty-five years before that, the English Queen, granddaughter of John of Gaunt, had arrived already married to the first King James of Scotland.
Her daughters had been less able. The best, Eleanor, had been sent from Scotland as soon as her mother was buried and was now Duchess of the Tyrol, and successful in all but procreation. Of the others, Joanna, deaf and dumb, had been sent home from the French court unmarried, despite Scotland’s disinclination to accept her. And aware of all of that was her niece Mary, the little Countess who had been vouchsafed a husband in Scotland and who, today, would be expected to play, for the first time perhaps, the part of a wife.
And Thomas Boyd was there. The horses came four abreast, fringed and tasselled and plumed, and between the paintpot chequer of banner and pennant and the bouncing of foxtail and feather you could see the cloth of gold of the heralds, the silver shoulders and helms of the men at arms, the host of the Danish household in its brilliant livery of gold and silver and azure with the Dannebrog Cross, and the hats tall and wide, flat and bulbous of the Scottish lords with their emblazoned cloaks, their gowns and doublets, jackets and coats in madder and russet, olive and rose.
For a long time, the Boyd banner was simply one among many, concealing the lords underneath. And then, as he passed, Gregorio saw the brown face and dark-brown hair curling thick round a stalwart neck under a hat made of beaver. A heavy chain, flashing with light, encircled a muscular chest and sturdy shoulders. The anxious precautions of Dean Castle were justified.
Then, thinking of Mary, Gregorio’s gaze fell on the little girl, so much younger, who had come so far to be wed.
Margaret, Princess of Denmark, Norway, Vandalia, Holstein and all the rest, sat on a golden chair set on a litter, surrounded by the flowery gowns of her ladies. Below her tall headdress she was round-faced and small: a pansy caught among orchids. Her eyes and her smile were both fixed, and her clear tender skin was drained of colour.
Gregorio thought, Nicholas: I hope you are watching. Nicholas: I hope you are shamed into weighing your strength against what you see there, what you see in the little Countess, what you see – yes, what despite everything might lie behind what Gelis has done. And, Nicholas, what Margot has suffered because of it.
The procession passed; turned at the junction into the Canongate and, meeting the great roar of the citizens, proceeded downhill, past Nicholas de Fleury and his guests to the Abbey of Holyrood. As it passed, the boy Robin pushed through the parlour and, after much seeking,